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U4 



THE REASON FOR IT. 

A BRIEF European tour, enjoyed during the sum- 
mer of 1900, in company of my elder brother 
James, of Melbourne, who met me at Glasgow, 
with memories of youthful aspirations recalled by 
scenes and circumstances incident to our itinerary, 
gave birth to inspirations resulting in "The Drummer 
Boy." 

While aware that "The Drummer Boy" will be of 
little interest to the present generation, the hope that 
some few copies of my little poem may fall into the 
hands of other elderly men who have lived those days, 
"When the heart beat high and true," with the war- 
like and patriotic fervor of high-blooded youth, gray 
beards now, but to whom memories of the "Peninsula, 
Waterloo, Sebastopol and India," "Wherever were 
England's wars," brings fire to the eye and color to 
the brow, then will I be happy indeed, for in these will 
be found spirits akin to my own. 

g^V m^ 9^^ 

Following the heading "Brussels," my brother, 
"Dearest of kin to my heart," is presumed to take up 
the story, as one who has been over the ground be- 
fore, and who evinces strong British resentment at 
Belgic attitude during the South African War then 
raging. 

My "Sergeant of the Line" came to the village of 
Ellon by the Ythan on recruiting service during the 
Kaffir War of 1852; hence, "The Transvaal swallowed 
Jock." The names and nicknames of the other "Wild 
ranting young diels" are those of young villagers and 
yokels of the time and place, excepting "Mack, bugler, 



the Sixty-fourth," who guarded the unhorsed Outram 
during the night melee of Kushab Wells, and who 
afterward served under Havelock and Sir Colin Camp- 
bell through the Indian Mutiny. Captain McKenzie 
is still living at Fredericton, New Brunswick, Canada. 
The "Others I may not name" refer to deserters from 
Her Britannic Majesty's forces stationed in Canada 
during the American Civil War. 

''When the noble Cathcart fell."— We have author- 
ity of Todleben, that after being twice repulsed and 
all the commissioned officers killed or disabled, the 
soldiers of Cathcart's Brigade, of their own volition, 
rallied, charged again and broke through the cordon 
of Russians surrounding them. Victor Hugo says 
that a sergeant saved the day for the British at Inker- 
mann. In accordance with British Army custom of 
that time, none but the names of commissioned officers 
were mentioned in dispatches; hence, "Whose names 
are unknown." 

"Who dispoiled the grace of Madonna's face." — A 
few days before our arrival at Waterloo, a party of 
students, we were told, cut off the nose and otherwise 
mutilated the statue of the Virgin. 

The story of the great battle has been so often told 
that it would seem best to refrain from further explana- 
tions ; so I leave the reader to sit in judgment on this 
humble effort, hoping for indulgence and trusting in 
mercy of the Court. 



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SUB'fiARYofCONdfTssil 
Two Copies Keccsvtf 
i FEB 5 1908 






THE DRUMMER BOY. 

Fond memory guides to-night 

Through mists of the days gone by 
When I pored by candle light 

O'er the stories that made me sigh 

And ballads that made me cry, 
From a heart emotion torn 

With the smold'ring fire of a grand desire 
In youth that is British born. 

I chafed at my narrow life 

And longed to be in the game, 

To join in the noble strife 

For my country's weal and fame, 
To have on her scrolls my name 

As one who was in the van 

And worthy of those who faced her foes 

From Senlac to Inkermann. 

The hunger, thirst and the grime, 
The march and the weary days, 

The storm, the sack and the crime 
That is born of battle craze, 
The heat and the madding haze 

Of the dreary desert path — 

Impatient of these my soul I'd appease 

With dreams of an aftermath. 



THE SERGEANT OF THE LINE. 

The days of a bairn were mine 

By the Ythan's crystal tide 
When a Sergeant of the Line 

Marched past with a stately pride, 

Though a limp was in his stride — 
A man in life's goodly prime, 

Whose visage was dark with the witness mark 
Of service in Southern clime. 

With his scarlet tunic new 

And his shako silver bound, 
With his red-striped trousers blue. 

His waist with a belt was wound. 

Pipe-clayed and buckled, and round 
His shoulder a sash of sheen — 

From plume to his shoon to mine eyes a boon 
Was this soldier of the Queen. 

Through the Ellon square he strode 

On stretch to the Market Brae, 
Turning by left on the road 

As he hastened up the way, 

Past the "Feu House," bleak and gray, 
Whose walls in the old time rang 

With laughter and shout of the merry rout 
When the "Tullochgorum" sang. 




''Stories that made me sigh/ 



(See page i.) 



— 3 — 

Booths, tents and shows by the score 
Were gathered upon the hill ; 

There was Wombwell's, Ord's and more 
That memory fails to fill, 
But the Sergeant had his will, 

And spake with crowds at the Fair 
Of the Kaffir dour and the godly Boer, 

The Cape and the Nation's care. 



The "Fifties" had scarce begun 

Ere England had need of men. 
For the Blacks had overrun 

A part of our Sphere again — 

Some African moor or fen 
Where the Boer had just inspanned — 

So 'twas Hodge and Wat, and 'twas Mike and Pat 
And Donald were in demand. 



In country and town, the same 

At fair or in market place. 
The yokel was marked for game, 

The farmer's son in disgrace. 

The servant without a place 
And 'prentice lad were a gain — 

To be smartly caught, then hammered and taught 
To widen our wide domain. 



Smart sergeants, keen to excel, 

Were gatherers of the stray, 
With many a story to tell ; 

The younger of service gay — 

The elders, medalled and gray, 
Discoursed of "The Great Design :" 

But of all that band there was none more bland 
Than our ''Sergeant of the Line." 



In voice that was deep and strong, 
With the timbre of command. 

He lectured the market throng 
Of the Empire's just demand — 
Of love for their native land — 

Of service across the sea — 

Of honor and fame in the mighty game 

Of war, in a fervid plea. 



Of the Ind's mysterious land 
He declaimed in awesome way. 

Of the mosques and temples grand 
And crowds that cheered the day. 
When the priests, with great display. 

Arrayed in their holy pride 

In vestments of vvhite for a solemn rite. 

Marched past v/ith a rythmic stride. 




"A Sergeant of the Line. 



(See page 2.) 



5 



Of service he freely spake — 

With Pollock he'd marched away 
When the Afghanistan stake 

Was lost in a mountain fray, 

But regained when our array 
Wreaked Somnath revenge in full, 

As it crashed a way through the Himalay 
And wrecked the gates of Cabul. 



Of the soldier's friend he sang — 
Sir Charles the just and the brave, 

And the vibrant numbers rang 
In lilt of a martial stave: — 
"Britannia should rule the wave 

As pride and hope of the Free," 

With lines that rehearse in jubilant verse 

The glory of the Meanee. 



With roar of the battle blend 

Napier in that rapt refrain — 
He sang, ''By the River's bend, 

At height of the deadly strain, 

When the Belooches in vain 
Stormed our devoted band, 

High over the clang and the shouting rang, 
'Stand children, my children stand.' " 



6 — 



Of wounds he'd received a share 

From bayonet, sabre and lance, 
But so must a soldier fare 

When taking a soldier's chance. 

His limp forbidding the dance. 
The Sikhs could account for that. 

Whom Gough overcame and redeemed his fame 
On the field of Guzerat. 



Sir Hugh was a son of Mars 

Who had early learned the game; 

Wherever were England's wars. 
To Gough it was all the same — 
'Twas like him to take the blame 

Of Chillianwala's fray. 

And like him to praise in generous phrase 

The foeman he met that day. 



Those Sikhs they were goodly men 

Wherever it came to blows, 
And should he meet them again 

He'd rather as friends than foes. 

Should the Empire need repose, 
A case that was scarcely yet. 

For watch or for ward place the Sikh on guard 
And there would be no regret. 



— 7 — 

And bairns with myself at play 
Stop short in our play to hear 
How the army marched away 

When the world awoke in fear. 

A lad in his fourteenth year, 
Repressing his boyish tears, 

In his tunic tight and his apron white 
Embarked with the Grenadiers, 



As they sailed the summer sea. 

While the white cliffs drifted by, 
So lonely and ill w^as he 

That a corporal passing nigh. 

Hearing a sob and a sigh, 
With pity upon his plight, 

Sat down by his side like a comrade tried 
Consoling him through the night. 



Then the landfall came at dawn, 

When the troops were rowed ashore. 
The glory of England's brawn, 

And Sir Arthur led the corps. 

How he looked his children o'er, 
As they formed and marched away. 

With their service packs on their sturdy backs, 
From noon till the close of day. 



8 



Briefly he told of the toil, 

Of the march and rude bivouac, 
Of the storm, the stress and moil. 

And the dread of the night attack ; 

His theme was the happy knack 
Of veterans in the van, 

As men without fear keeping all in good cheer 
With jest and the ready plan. 



When he spake we held our breath, 

Of his part that fateful day. 
Of glory and fame and death 

That followed the morning gray — 

Of the foeman's brave array 
When our bugles shrilly blew, 

How he rolled his drum when the time had come 
For advance at Waterloo. 



Though war is the soldier's game, 

In peace he may still enjoy 
A service that's never tame 

And pleasures that never cloy; 

A prince is the soldier boy 
On shore or on transport's deck. 

And welcome his face where he finds his place 
In Aberdeen or Quebec. 



At the Curragh of Kildare — 

Was ever a camp so gay — 
The trip to Donnybrook Fair — 

Would he ever forget that day — 

The Colleens that lined the way, 
The cheers that came from the boys, 

Each armed with shillaleh and togged out gayly 
In moleskins and corderoys. 



Of station and camp and town 
He discoursed in cheerful strain; 

For the service of the Crown 
Was ever a boon and gain. 
And never should youth refrain 

When honor was his who tried, 

With promotion sure if he might endure 

In his military pride. 



But some shook heads as they fee-d. 

Said some, "Dae ye think we're daft?" 
A lassie cried, "Jock, tak' heed !" 

While the gillies jeered his craft; 

But the Sergeant won his draft, 
And marched that night to the Inn 

With a half score chiels, wild ranting young diels. 
With shillings to aid their din. 



10 



When the evening shadows fell 

In the lengthened summer days, 
We lingered to hear him tell 

Of foreign scenes and ways, 

And ever in note of praise, 
Of the army life or mess, 

Till many a blade shook hammer or spade 
To shoulder our old Brown Bess. 



Some were for the work unfit 

And some were redeemed with gold. 

But mostly they won their kit 
And were gathered in the fold, 
To serve, in the heat or cold. 

Wherever was England's need. 

By the peaceful vine or in battle line 

Where phantoms of glory lead. 



The Transvaal swallowed Jock, 

But Sandy and Jaemie and Will 
Were wounded breasting a rock 

That frowns on the Alma's rill. 

While near the crest of the hill 
Whustle-Blink and Birsy fell, 

Where the "Forty-'n-twa," sae gallant and braw. 
Was harried by grape and shell. 




'AHame with the battle's joy." 

(See page 14.) 



— II — 

While scanning the grewsome tale 

Of that chill November morn, 
When Liprandie made assail 

And our lines were thinned and torn, 

Some e'en that were fey and worn 
Saw Dedzy and Watty and Dan 

Stare ghastly the sky where the shells screamed by 
On night of the Inkermann. 



Of gallant lads of the North 

There was one I knew full well — 
Mac, bugler, the "Sixty-fourth," 

Whose story is good to tell : 

He, on Kushab's gory fell. 
Held the Persian breast to breast, 

Till hurried relief to his unhorsed chief- 
Sir James, of our bravest best. 



Were others I may not name, 

Impatient, for war was near. 
With service by contrast tame. 

And duties by contrast drear. 

With promise of rank and gear — 
O'er-leaping enlistment's bars, 

Did battle for right of the Northern might 
Beneath the Stripes and the Stars. 



12 

Ah, thou "Sergeant of the Line," 

Thy memory craves a tear; 
When duty called it was thine 

Of the first to volunteer; 

Though thy name may not appear 
Where official pages tell, 

'Twas thine to array and restore the day 
When the noble Cathcart fell. 



And thine to cheer at their toil 

Gaunt comrades in trenches damp, 

With hunger and cold for spoil 
In their dreary winter camp — 
To list for the stealthy tramp 

Of the midnight sortie's van. 

And in hopeless strife surrender thy life 

In ditch of the Great Redan. 



A wreath for the Sergeant bold, 

And wreaths for lads of the Line, 
Whose story is briefly told; 

But I would that power were mine 

Of words that I might define 
The debt that our England owes 

To those of her own whose names are unknown. 
As flakes of the drifting snows. 



— 13 — 

Where the Deveron's shadowed wave 

And the Ugie waters glide, 
The winds in mournful stave 

Lament with the forests wide — 

With glory for hope and guide 
Their "Flowers" marched down to the Bay — 

The glory had been for their Country and Queen 
But ''The Flowers are wede away." 




— 14 — 

THE DRUMMER BOY. 

There's a painting fires my soul 

Of a fair-haired Drummer Boy; 
He's beating the forward roll 

Aflame with the battle's joy, 

While the Grenadiers deploy, 
Adept at their soldier trade, 

Advancing in line down gory incline 
Ranks drest like a church parade. 

But it was no church parade, 

Though it fell on Sabbath day. 
When on hill and dale and glade 

Of their England, far away. 

There was rest and peace and play 
With an ear for priest's rebuke. 

But the sweethearts sighed and the mothers cried 
For lads with the Iron Duke. 

Thou glorious Drummer Boy, 

Thy mates of the sturdy limb. 
Although service may alloy 

Some gloss of their jaunty trim. 

They dress by the corp'ral grim — 
Such fortune was theirs and thine, 

I may never cease though my days increase 
To contrast that fate with mine. 




The Dread of Kings. 
'He jested zvith Soult and Key/ 

(See page 22.) 



— 15 — 

Too young to perform a part 

In drama of Alma's steep, 
I read with a burning heart 

The epic of Russia's keep, 

How our fellows crossed the deep 
With allies that once were foes. 

To challenge the pride of the Northern tide 
And perish in Crimean snows. 



I envied the mountain bred 

In their *'Thin red line" of war. 

Where the Cossacks, grandly led 
By the gallant gra}^ Huzzar, 
Charged vainly our serried bar 

Of Gaelic valor and plan, 

When Sir Colin said, ere was bay'net laid, 

"Lads, ye maun dee whar ye stan'." 



Queen of the North, thou art known 

Through fame of thy sons to-day; 
Then welcome back to their own 

Thy bravest, bearded and gray. 

Grim remnant of that array. 
Stern knights of the "Vengeance vow" 

Who hurried in wrath through the jungle's path 
And with Havelock reached Lucknow. 



i6 



Such yearnings as these were mine, 

But alas for cherished dream, 
The horizon gave no sign 

Nor promise of bark a-beam 

For mine Argonaut esteem — 
All visions of glory fade 

When the stirring note of the trumpet's throat 
Gives way to the drone of trade. 



I had reached to years mature 

Ere fortune, that shy coquette, 
Gave heed to a clumsy lure 

And spoil to a modest net; 

But at last my steps were set. 
For the longing ever grew 

With the chastened gleam of a boyhood's dream 
That beckoned to Waterloo. 



Then I bade good-bye to care 

And I voyaged across the sea, 
To a land of simple fare, 

To a land that craves no plea. 

For its loyal sons are free. 
By grace of sires' endeavor — 

May Land of such birth, so favored of earth, 
Hold Freedom's shrine forever ! 







1^ 



— 17 — 

Dearest of kin to my heart, 

Eagerly waiting to guide, 
While my good ship, true to chart, 

Was cleaving the turgid tide 

That threatens the banks of Clyde, 
Held me at last on the pier 

With a grateful sigh while his kindly eye 
Distilled from its depths a tear. 




i8 



BRUSSELS. 

Thou City of proud design, 

Of false and ungrateful heart, 
Strange favor of Fate is thine, 

Allotted to bear a part 

Immune on debated chart. 
Where, never to earn a scar, 

Thy paladins' ward is the boulevarde 
In trappings of silken war. 

These airily boast their might. 
Reviling the Hand that saves; 

Sons of the heroes of flight, 
Tapping their tasseled glaives. 
Would jeer at Power that braves 

A Continent's jealous spleen, 

That renders a just accounting of trust 

With merciful constant mien. 

By this many statued Fane 

Observe, as we pass along. 
The orderly strife for gain 

Of this keenly witted throng, 

And the racial talent strong. 
Where woman is more than queen. 

Of barter and trade, with her canine aid, 
While man is despised and mean. 



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— 19 — 

Alight, 'tis here we alight — 

In this hall of tragic fame 
Were gathered on summer night 

By the Richmond's stately dame, 

Pieces and pawns of the game, 
And many who passed this door. 

Whom music inspired as the heart desired 
Danced blithely — but danced no more. 



Heedless of time or of tide 

When gaiety flouts the morn, 
Pleasure and folly preside 

While the fair and brave adorn — 

Care shambling in shade forlorn — 
But leaning against the wall 

Is One speaking low to others who bow 
And silently leave the hall. 



Make haste to equip and arm 

These revelers and away — 
The long-roll's dreaded alarm. 

Before the breaking of day. 

Embattles in brief array 
A resolute tried command. 

To repair the waste of time by its haste 
For the Foe is in the land. 



20 



How changed is the prospect now, 

No cloud obscuring the sky, 
Nor dread of a foeman's vow 

Of sack or dispoilment nigh: 

Serenely the peasants ply, 
While over the route of war, 

Where the soldier toiled and the Foe was foiled, 
We fare in a cushioned car. 




WATERLOO. 

This mound that offends the gaze, 

Cheap boast of vain-glorious man, 
Should taste and decency raze 

Its mass and the battle's plan. 

As 'twas when the fight began, 
Be restored — historic sense 

Might ignore the flight of inconstant might, 
Of gaudy and slim pretence. 

'Tis writ how the Emperor dared, 
'Tis read how the Duke repelled, 

'Tis sung how the soldier fared 
As he toiled in attack or held : — 
Where glory's romance is spelled 

And the measure of fame is found, 
The insolent bid of that pyramid 

Is affront to hallowed ground. 

Outlined on the southern sky. 

On crest of a gentle swell, 
Thy calm appeals to the eye. 

But for all that calm, La Belle, 

The mind falls under a spell, 
While the heart beats high and true, 

For memory brings of the dread of kings 
And the Emperor's last review. 



22 



From melee of Ligny's fight 

Or havoc of Quatre Bras, 
All day and far in the night 

Veteran and conscript raw, 

Still nearer and nearer draw 
To the goal by Fate decreed — 

Toil wearily on though the day is done 
And the tempest mocks their need. 



The Emperor braved the rain 
And the thunder's roll and crash, 

With a god-like proud disdain 

He smiled at the lightning's flash: — 
To-morrow would bring the clash 

Of this favored Child of War, 

With a wary foe he must overthrow 

And Fortune bend to his star. 



Lightly regarding the foe. 

He jested with Soult and Ney; 
As a gamester dallies a throw 

He dallied with chance that day; 

Then turned to the grand display 
Of his legions marching past. 

As they wheeled in place with portentous grace 
And formed at the bugle's blast. 

LOFC. 



— 23 — 

Afar off on yonder height 

He watched the opposing host, 
Silently grim in its might 

Filing each arm to its post; 

Then moved to admire and boast, 
To his marshals gayly said, 

As the bay'nets massed and the sabres passed 
With the guns in brief parade: — 



"These squadrons move from the West — 

They wheel — 'tis admirably done — 
They turn and halt — it is best — 

They'll fight, but will surely run: 

Before the setting of sun 
I'll drive them before like kine — 

I'll measure the plan of this Englishman- 
In Brussels, to-night, we'll dine!" 



Even so was morning spent 

Though the rain had ceased to fall, 
But the bow was fully bent 

And the hunt at ready call. 

While the Guardsmen, bronzed and tall. 
In reserve for final blow 

Of victory, stood in impatient mood 
To be hurled upon the foe. 



24 



The Duke was alert and ware 

Assembling his varied host, 
Weeding and culling with care, 

Soberly weighing the cost 

Where the brave were needed most, 
And the doubtful best in place, 

That the shock of war might insure a bar 
To defection and disgrace. 



Though strong his faith in the day, 

The measure of chance was dire: 
Were marshalled in that array 

Many who battled for hire 

And quailed at the opening fire — 
A mixed and uncertain brood ; 

But he knew the files from the Western Isles 
Would hold or die where they stood. 



Fearlessly riding the field, 

He guarded with patient care. 
Where the soldier's need appealed 

He challenged a soldier's share. 

In the charge or serried square. 
Wherever was danger most; 

And when day was done and the battle won 
Grieved over the mournful cost. 





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25 



So dreaming on summer day 

Of a grand heroic past, 
The reverent footsteps stray 

Where the trees their shadows cast 

On thy walls, which bore a blast, 
Thou grim Hougoumont, that swept 

With furiant breath of the hounds of death 
When Fate her appointment kept. 



The portal recalls to mind 

In strife for this gloomy hold 
How the sappers, carnage blind. 

Crashed through these gates and rolled. 

In rigor clawing the mold. 
At flood of the battle's tide. 

How the Grenadiers and their Gallic peers 
In grapple of Titans died. 



This chapel of modest line, 

Whose story hath reached afar. 
With its Virgin-guarded shrine 

Escaping the wrack of war — 

Yet slumbered the power to bar, 
In peace, the impious band 

Who despoiled the grace of Madonna's face 
With sacrilegious hand. 



26 



Though closed to the wants of men, 

Such memories haunt this well 
As quicken the tongue and pen, 

And the guides in pity tell 

How the mangled ones who fell 
Writhed hither in dire request; 

Now charged to replete this grewsome retreat 
Shields many a mould'ring guest. 

Surveying this classic ground 

And pacing where squares aligned, 
I've fancied the bugle sound 

And steel-clad horsemen wind 

Through the valley, all confined. 
Then open and gaining room, 

"Vive L' Empereur!" shout and with sabres out 
Ride gloriously — to their doom. 

Here fashion a soldier's shrine 

On glacis where Picton fell. 
As cheering a slender line 

Of Tartans, he led so well : — 

"A volley, then charge !" They tell 
How the startled foemen saw 

Through the flaming smoke, dealing thrust and 
stroke. 
The spectres of Quatre Bras. 



27 



Now turn to the Old Brigade, 
It starts at the bugle sound, 

For the Royal's course is laid 
Where the Eniskillings bound 
O'er hedge and the broken ground — 

The Grays give cry as they score : — 
''Scotland forever" — rash the endeavor 

And — Ponsonby leads no more ! 



Still staunch are thy walls La Haye 

As they were that sombre morn 
When War with his grim array 

Seized the courtyard, rude and worn: 

Here the Legion, hope forlorn, 
Its part in the battle's plan. 

Nor in quarter saved nor for quarter craved 
But perished all to a man. 



Repelling Dubois' attack. 

Yokels from Humber and Tyne, 

With Kempt and the war-like Pack, 
Holding the left of the line. 
With Hanover's squares combine — 

First blood for many of these. 

Yet worthy to train with veterans of Spain- 

And few that recrossed the seas. 



28 



From dawn of that fateful day, 

Impeded by flood and fire, 
The Prussians are making way. 

For their Leader's words inspire. 

And arouse to fierce desire; 
Though the woods are stormed and won, 

*Tis a soldier's test, and there's none may rest 
Where Blucher commands, "Come on!" 



A lull in the leaden shower 

And the war clouds circling high — 
Behold ye our England's power — 

The might of her sons descry — 

The wrecks of their quarry lie, 
A battue of horses and men, 

Mound upon mound in ghastly compound. 
Never to battle again. 



The Duke, aware of the strain, 

Heartens his shattered command 
In words that are blunt and plain : — 

"Though victory is at hand — 

Hard pounding is in demand, 
But \\t shall pound longest here." 

Repairing their arms, forgetting their harms 
His soldiers salute and cheer. 



— 29 — 

More work remains to be done, 

Though guns are broken and mute, 
As the rays of the waning sun 

Through sorrowful mists salute 

The lees of that grim dispute : 
He fathoms the Foe's design 

And squares disappear, flank, angle and rear 
As the files reform in line. 



The daylight is failing fast 

And the Emperor heeds the hour; 
One effort more, though his last, 

Ere the shades of even lower. 

One desperate stroke for power — 
He looks about and above — 

'Tis a gambler's chance, but the Guards advance 
With cheers for the Chief they love. 

The columns descend the vale 

And their eagles flout the breeze. 
They bear on the crests the talc 

Of a score of victories: 

The Guards from across the seas 
Behold, in the coming tide, 

As they sternly form like a gathering storm, 
Their rivals in martial pride. 



30 



The fife and the drum appeal 

As Ney takes ground on the rise, 
But the distant guns reveal 

Where Bulow has made emprise ; 

And a bugle trill implies 
It's time for the Duke to draw 

On the Pride of France — ''The Line will advance- 
Up Guards and at them — hurrah !" 



The storm breaks forth in its might, 

The sulphurous pall sinks low, 
As through the vanishing light 

Death gleans a harvest of woe. 

"Surrender, thou gallant foe" — 
But Cambronne's coarse reply 

Balks merciful ken and these dauntless men. 
In scorn of surrender, die. 



The volleys hurtle and roar, 

The musket is foul and hot, 
The lance is adript with gore 

And the guns belch grape and shot 

Till their answer cometh not. 
Then the moon reveals award 

In hillocks of slain on that haunted plain — 
In hecatombs of the Guard ! 




Q 

^ ^ 






— 31 — 

Sepulture brief for the dead, 

For the victors right of way, 
For the vanquished every head 

Be bowed — aye mingle the bay 

With a myrtle bloom to-day. — 
'Twas all in desire to save, 

And in Victory's choice may Freedom rejoice 
While the brave salute the brave. 



Britannia, thy sons return 

And holiday cheers the land. 
In triumph thy watch-fires burn 

While the poor, the rich and grand 

Rejoice with the blare of band 
And with banners tempt the wind — 

But sweethearts will sigh and mothers vvill cry 
For the lads who were left behind. 




— 32 — 

AFTERMATH. 

When the daily tasks are done 
And the evening meal is past, 

The grandchildren, one by one 
From the eldest to the last. 
Beleaguer and hold me fast, 

And there may be no release 

Till a tale is told of the days of old, 

Of love or of war or peace. 



Then many a thrice told tale 

Is fashioned to meet demand. 
But they're sometimes dry and stale 

And weary my little band. 

So I yield to joint command 
The story that all enjoy. 

With smiles and with tears for the Grenadiers 
And the fair-haired Drummer Boy. 





"The story that all enjoy.' 

(See page 32.) 




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